


not your typical guardian angel

by bonebo



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Los Muertos are mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 05:28:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7832173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/pseuds/bonebo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Old habits, like old soldiers, die hard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not your typical guardian angel

_They won’t find him here._

It’s all that’s on Reaper’s mind as he staggers down one dirt street of Dorado, heading toward the only refuge he has; his legs threaten to give out from under him with every step and he knows he’s still bleeding from half a dozen bullets lodged in him somewhere, but right now none of that matters. Right now he doesn’t care that he’s barely able to keep himself solid, his wounded body demanding a rest without the confines of a physical form--he doesn’t care that he can taste blood on his teeth, coating his tongue, that his right lung feels heavy in a way that he’s come to recognize means it’s full of fluid. He’s close to dying, but he’s always close to dying, so he can’t be bothered to worry about it.

What he _is_ worried about is the soldier tossed over his shoulder, with his visor cracked and silver hair matted with blood, chest rattling with uneven breaths that sound painful even to Reaper. 

It’d been a pure stroke of luck that Reaper had found him in time--had seen the soldier slumped against the wall of an alley, rifle slack in his lap and head lolling, oblivious and easy prey for the members of _Los Muertos_ that prowled nearby. Had been on pure instinct that he’d appeared, standing in front of the helpless body and taking the bullets meant for the soldier into his own flesh; and _Los Muertos_ had fled when they saw his shadow, recognized him and scurried into their holes like rats--because he owned these streets first, was the original demon that terrorized the night, and even now, what threat were a gang of the dead to the Reaper? 

It had been luck that he’d found the soldier when he had--and he doesn’t want to think about what could’ve happened, if he hadn’t been there.

“You’re a...fucking _moron_ ,” he mumbles, kicking open the door to the little shed once he reaches it--the insult is half to the soldier and half to himself, because what is this charity even going to prove? Overwatch set fire to the name that used to be his, dragged the identity he worked his whole life for through the dirt, and no amount of half-assed rescue missions of their ex-golden boy is going to be enough to clear the red from his ledger. Even if Jack _did_ know who saved him--

 _Soldier_ , he corrects himself, harshly; he lets the body fall off his shoulder and onto the bare cot tucked up against the corner, with the same lack of gentleness. Jack is gone--went up in flames with a base in Switzerland and the dream of a better tomorrow, with a boy named Gabriel that was stupid enough to believe in fairy tales and happy endings. All that remains of him--of them--is two bitter old men and two masks to hide faces that should be long dead, two sets of steps that will never rhyme again. 

Reaper grabs one of the biotic emitters off the soldier’s belt, priming it with his thumb before setting it on the floor; immediately the healing field springs to life, cocooning the battered body within its soft yellow glow, and Reaper has to take a step back as the nanites within it wreak havoc on his own body. 

He has half a mind to stay--just for a while, he tells himself, just to watch and make sure the soldier isn’t disturbed--but then a soft groan hits his ears, and he looks up in time to see blue eyes fluttering, lips moving as the soldier stirs--

Reaper has dissolved himself and slipped out of the shed before the soldier can speak, and he tells himself that it was too close a call, that he’s getting reckless. He solidifies himself again once he’s safely away from the little building, and makes it all of ten feet into the nearest alleyway before he’s collapsing to hands and knees, blood spraying from his mouth with his ragged, heaving coughs. He feels the mounting chill of an incoming death and lets himself sink into it, embrace the cold escape.

His last thought is that he’s glad it’s his own death he’s facing, and not Jack’s.


End file.
